Amy Kriewaldt

Even in Death

If I stood on the tips of my toes, I was just tall enough to peek through the windows of the double doors that led from the back kennel to the examination room. I could see my father in his green scrubs, firmly holding down a squirming ball of fluffy curls. I heard the dog’s whines from behind the door, but didn’t understand; shouldn’t a veterinarian be making it feel better? My father’s face was set with determination as he plunged a syringe deep into the fur. His firm hold on the dog’s chest gentled as its kicking legs slowly stilled. My father’s hands, so big and powerful, waited until there was absolute silence in the room.